


Time Waits for No One

by The_ILoveYou_Game



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alpha!Sherlock, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Bonding, Grief/Mourning, Insecurity, Jealousy, M/M, Marking, Mpreg, Omega!John, Omegaverse, Possessive Behavior, discussion of miscarriages
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-25
Updated: 2015-05-08
Packaged: 2018-01-09 23:12:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1151929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_ILoveYou_Game/pseuds/The_ILoveYou_Game
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John can't just wait around forever while Sherlock sorts out his feelings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Great Gain

**Author's Note:**

> Okay so long time reader, first time writer when it comes to Omegaverse. I really just wanted to get this posted so sorry it's a bit rushed.
> 
> Don't worry I haven't forgotten about my other fic.
> 
> Don't judge the title I couldn't think of anything okay
> 
> Starts off after the pool scene

_Door. Lock. Windows.  Lock. Unlock. Lock. Windows. People on the street below. Threats. Predators. Protect.  Secure. Protect. Door. Unlock. Lock…_

“Sherlock” The pacing detective is only making John more nervous.  They’re not bonded, not by a long shot, but their pheromones are definitely taking a toll on each other.

 _John. Omega. My omega. Anxiety. Pain. Defend._ The smell of distressed omega was steady and strong coming from the blond doctor and Sherlock needs to make sure these damn windows are locked properly. And both doors. He can’t have someone breaking in because of faulty locks. His omega needed to be provided for, protected.

The cloying smell of chlorine is still stuck to his clothing, reminding him of the hell he just barely escaped. John should never have been in that situation and the only reason they’d gotten their hands on his blogger was because he let that man out of his sight. John had left to go to Sarah’s and that was the problem. Didn’t the omega know he was his? And yet he was running out to someone else and that put him in danger.

“Sherlock.”

The detective turns from his perch by the window, snapping the curtains shut to keep out prying eyes, to stare at his blogger. The smaller man is tense, still shaking from the fear and adrenalin of the evening.

Those dark blue eyes are wide and stormy, watery with uncertainty. Seeing the shaken man pulls Sherlock back from his feral state. He stalks towards the doctor who is suddenly the only thing he can focus on. The Alpha yelling _ProtectMarkPossessDefend_.  John was taken, strapped to explosives, had a bloody _gun_ pointed at him. He was in the snipers crosshairs. The anger of someone touching his blogger, of someone threatening what’s his makes his instincts surge. Sherlock is supposed to keep his omega safe. He failed. He needs to prove he can provide. He can be a good mate and he needs the omega to see that.

John relaxes a bit as Sherlock comes into his personal space, his familiar powerful scent relaxing him. Sherlock brings his hands to the shorter man’s shoulders; he needs to comfort his omega, still pouring out distress markers into the air. A low growl fights its way out of his throat when he smells traces of the consulting criminal on him. It stopped being a game the minute Moriarty brought John into it.

_“I can stop John Watson, too. Stop his heart.”_

He’s still trembling beneath the detective’s fingers. Sherlock ducks his head down, running his nose along John’s hairline and neck.

At first, John finds the warmth and close proximity comforting. The stress of nearly dying at the hands of a madman has set off his solider instincts but as the adrenalin works its way out of his system he’s more and more shaken. His biology is telling him that he’s safe in the arms of this _StrongTallVirileBrilliant_ alpha and he’s never felt better protected in his life. The hands on his shoulder move towards his hips and he stirs when those hands grip him and hold him place. His face is turning a bright red when he feels his flatmates nose travelling down his face. He’s nuzzling the side of his face, the curls tickling John’s nose. The warm puffs of air along his throat and collar are setting alarm bells off. Sherlock is _scenting_ him. His baser nature is begging him to give in, bare his throat and arch against the potential mate. It’s hard to ignore the part of him telling him to give Sherlock access to the glands that will release the hormones necessary for bonding heat. _Give up, let your Alpha take care of you, comfort you, make sure you’re never in danger again_. It’s tempting.

He wants to give in, and it’s an increasing possibility as he feels Sherlock begin to give light licks to his chin and neck, but he remembers everything Sherlock’s said about bonding. Sherlock doesn’t want to bond. He’s made it known on several occasions how cumbersome the entire thing is. How a mate would only get in the way of the Work, his only true passion – and John starts to feel humiliated by his own desperation. If he lets this go any further than flatmate’s, best friends, and then Sherlock will hate him come morning and normal brain function.

As much as John loathes doing it, he needs to stop this now because the worse that can come of this is a couple of days of awkward coexistence that neither one of them will bring it up.

John tries taking a step back, because this is far too intimate an act for flatmates, leaning back, trying to dislodge the detectives face from his neck. But as soon as he feels him pull away Sherlock’s tightening his grip on the omega’s hips and pulling him flush against his body. He’s growling in John’s ear, a low rumbling sound that John can feel in his bones. A warning. It’s not going to be so easy to extricate himself from the territorial Alpha, but he’s a soldier and he can use force if he needs to. He’s really hoping he doesn’t though, mostly because he’s not one hundred percent sure he can take the feral detective in his shaken state. But by God he’d try.

“Sherlock, listen…”He squeezes his arms between their bodies, hands flat on Sherlock’s chest trying to put some space between them. He swears he can feel the beginnings of an erection against his thigh and it’s making him weak in the knees. He pushes against the detective, hard. He barely gets a couple of centimeters between them before the Alpha is snarling. He grabs ahold of the smaller man’s arms and pins them to his side while latching on to his neck. He’s got the skin above the omega’s gland tight between his teeth. The harsh noise coming from him is clear: Submit.

John’s mind is whirring trying to figure out how to get the alpha to back off but when Sherlock tightens his hands around John’s arm the doctor lets out a yelp, pain making him lose his train of thought.

Sherlock’s body is telling him to stake his claim, give a clear sign to others that this man was spoken for and to remind the omega that he can keep him safe from harm. When he hears John cry out he halts his ministrations. Letting go of the flesh between his teeth, he begins desperately pushing at the doctor’s clothing, manhandling him out of his jacket. He growls at all the layers of clothing the man insisted on wearing and ignores John’s protests when he throws the brick colored cardigan onto the ground behind him. As he peels off more layers from his blogger the scents become stronger and he can smell traces of even more people on him.

He’s snarling at the strong reek of strange alphas on his omega. He’ll definitely have to burn this outfit later. What he sees when he final gets down to John’s vest makes the snarl die in his throat.  Those tanned arms are mottled with a disgusting collection of violet and yellow marks. His faculties have returned enough for him to easily identify the marks. They’re handprints. Finger marks from wear Moriarty’s men grabbed John. The severity of the bruising shows that John tried to fight back and get away (and a small spark of pride flares in his chest at how brave his blogger can be) and he remembers why they’re both here.

Not because he needs to mark John, not because John needs an Alpha’s protection, and not because of some other person trying to steal away his amazing-fantastic-brave John. He’s here because he decided to play around with a psychopath and his best friend got caught up in the crossfire.

To make the situation considerably worse, he was forcibly scenting John, and judging from the pheromones he’s been pumping out and his erection, the Alpha side of him wasn’t going to stop there. It makes him sick and he practically throws John away from him.

Seeing the clarity in the detective’s eyes, John knows he’s getting his friend back. His arms are tender from the harsh treatment earlier in the evening but the pain is secondary because as Sherlock pushes him away and he’s filled with embarrassment and shame when he sees the disgusted look in his eyes. He was right in his earlier decision to stop it before it gets too far but actually seeing the repulsion in Sherlock’s eyes makes his stomach twist.

It was biology. Just chemistry. Nothing more.

They’re frozen for few moments, Sherlock panting slightly, and John simmering with self-loathing. Slowly, he begins to move around the lounge picking up his discarded clothing and not meeting Sherlock’s eyes.

“John,” The moment demands something be said, “John, my apologies. I didn’t mean to…lose control like that.” The blood is still buzzing in Sherlock’s veins and he’s willfully trying to ignore the throbbing between his legs.

“No Sherlock its fine. Well, no it wasn’t…but it’s okay because it wasn’t…” John chokes a bit. It was just biology. Sherlock doesn’t want him. It was just an alpha trying to claim a possible mate. “it wasn’t _you_.”

“Okay,” Sherlock’s relieved to hear those words. John knows it was just instinct. Good. There’s no confusion between them. He doesn't need something as ridiculously pedestrian as this to ruin the dynamic of their pack or, even worse, get in the way of the Work. There’s still tension in the air that’s making his hair stand on end but he’s not sure why. He runs his fingers through his locks nervously, “Do you, uhm, want me to take a look at your arms? Are you hurt anywhere else?” What’s making him ask this? John’s a doctor. Any injuries he’s sustained he’d be able to handle on his own.

John looks a bit taken aback at the concern and he’s staring at the pile of clothing in his arms, a slight furrow between his brows. “No. They’re just some bruises. I’ll get some ice or arnica cream for them.” It doesn’t feel right to leave it at this. He wants to say something, but what can he says that won’t strain their friendship any more than it is now? He settles for, “Will you be sleeping tonight?”

Sherlock strides over to the sofa and flops like a big cat, assuming his Mind Palace pose, “Mmmm no most likely not”. He’s got so much new information about Moriarty to process and sleep is the furthest thing from his mind.

“Right. Well. I’ll see you in the morning then.” John makes towards the stairs to his room throwing a Good Night Sherlock over his shoulder on his way out. He doubts Sherlock has heard him, probably deep in his mind by now.

John steps out of shoes and tugs off his trousers and vest; not bothering to put his clothes in the laundry basket before crawling onto his bed and under the duvet. Lying on his side he sees his crumpled cardigan sticking out of the mess on the floor. Slipping out of bed, he pads over to pick it up. John buries his nose in the soft material. Ignoring the embarrassingly-comforting ache on his neck where Sherlock was biting him earlier, he begins to drift off curled around the cardigan, because sticking to the warm knitted fabric is the faint scent of Sherlock and if he closes his eyes, and doesn’t think about it overly much, maybe he can pretend he never saw the repulsed look in his best friend’s eyes as he pushed him away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was supposed to be a lot shorter I swear I'm so sorry
> 
> Alright so I've got a pretty good idea where this story will go and I'll be changing and adding tags as it progresses. I didn't want to add them all and ruin any surprises. I haven't decided if there'll be mpreg or not because I'm not sure if I'm ready to write that.
> 
> Like I said at the beginning this is my first omegaverse so I'm getting the hang of it and I might alter the "rules" a bit to fit this story. Any big deviations from mainstream omegaverse will come with explanations. There will be nasty sticky medically-questionable smut at some point. After all, what's omegaverse without crazy fucking sex?
> 
> Not sure how many chapters there will be but probz around like 5 or 6. Just depends on if I suddenly get struck by inspiration. I can't give any promises on when updates will happen. 
> 
> Find me on tumblr for possible sneak peeks and previews, or just to bug me to update. Comments and Kudos appreciated.


	2. A Scandal on Baker Street Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How far are either of them willing to let themselves go?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short update. Sorry it's so wordy.

“I think we should address the events of last night.”

The spoon stirring John’s tea comes to an abrupt halt at the declaration. He’d resigned himself to completely ignoring what had transpired. To bring it up is so un-Sherlockian that he’s both eager to hear what the detective has to say and dreading being flayed open and analyzed under Sherlock’s unyielding eyes. John risks a glance at the detective who is seated at their strangely clean (well maybe not what you’d call _clean_ but definitely safe looking) dining table: microscope, notebook, and slides lined up in front of him. Briefly he wonders what the experiment is about and if it has to do with Moriarty.  Judging from the strange feather assortment in front of them man, he’s doubting it’s any more than recreational research. John doesn’t see any dead birds laying around which leaves him to wonder where Sherlock even got the feathers from. If his stomach wasn’t knotted with anxiety, he’d laugh at the mental image of the tall brunet chasing pigeons in the streets to collect samples.

An impatient tap from Sherlock’s biro brings John’s attention back to the question at hand.

Opting to stick to nonchalance, John goes for, “Well you know, brush with death, stress, adrenalin…it’s normal. I saw it all the time in the army. A threat from a strange alpha triggered your hormones which in turn triggered mine.” With a shrug of his shoulders he says, “Nothing much to talk about, really.” God he knows how unconvincing he sounds and it's pathetic.

 He takes his tea with him to the opposite end of the table from Sherlock whose lithe fingers are still wrapped around a pen, poised to take notes on whatever new thing he was studying beneath the lens of his microscope. He’s staring at his tea, foolishly hoping Sherlock will just drop the subject. It’s already past 9 in the morning but it’s still much too early to talk about this with his flatemate who is…what? Asexual? Homosexual? Just, sexually repressed? He doesn’t even want to begin to try and put a label on Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock’s piercing gaze tells John that he’s definitely not going for John’s brush-off and he’s sits, waiting for the man to break the silence.

Something close to guilt still boils away in the pit of Sherlock’s stomach. Last night was as close to terrified as he’s gotten in a long, _long_ time because for a terrifying moment he was not in control of his body. His mind was there but was not calling the shots. All night he stayed up trying to organize the new information he’d collected on James Moriarty, now that he finally met the man in person but his thoughts were frequently straying back to John: his intoxicating scent, his sandy blond hair, the warmth of his skin, the soft malleability of his body against Sherlock’s and the way he melted beneath his hands.  

Then there were the memories that caused the unease to settle in his chest: John’s tension as Sherlock held him and the look of apprehension and fear is his eyes, his struggle to pull his away, and his pained whimpers. He lost control and he hurt John.

“It’s better we confront this now rather than let it fester and harm our dynamic.” The words sound rehearsed and John wonders if Sherlock read that in a book or got in from the television. They’re doing this, having this awkward conversation, because Sherlock feels compelled to. It’s just damage control.

Sherlock set’s his pen on the tabletop and crosses clasps his hands in front of his face, “I am so very sorry, John. I never meant…” The sincerity in the detectives voice makes John look at him. He needs to endure the words about to come from the brunet’s mouth. “I never meant for that to happen. Rest assured it will never happen again,” because Sherlock will be damned if he’s ever responsible for that pained look on John’s face ever again. When there’s no response from John, he continues, “I didn’t want you to get the wrong idea.” _I am not some hormone-riddled Alpha who thinks with his knot._

John lets out a huff of self-deprecating laughter. It sounds like a cliché you tell someone after a one-off, when the other person wants more from you then you’re offering. So here John is coming off like a heartbroken, goo-goo eyed teenager. A mortifying thought enters his mind: what if Sherlock can see right through him.

John came to terms with his feelings for his flatmate a while ago. He’s also come to terms with the harsh reality of his situation: Sherlock doesn’t want him. He knows it’s not entirely personal, from what he can suss out Sherlock doesn’t really want anyone.  That first night, at Angelo’s, John had been honest: he wasn’t interested in Sherlock. As far as he could figure out, Sherlock was just another self-obsessed arrogant dickhead Alpha and John wasn’t looking for an Alpha to control him.  It didn’t take long for him to learn that the detective treated everyone like that, man, woman, alpha, beta, omega…it didn’t matter. John’s has no doubt that he’s gotten closer to the detective than most others, from Mycroft’s cryptic conversations it’s probably a good assumption that he’s the man’s only friend…and John is absolutely in love with him.

It’s hopelessly masochistic to fall in love a self-proclaimed sociopath married to his work, but what else can he do? He may not be a genius like Sherlock but John was almost certain he’d hidden his feelings for the detective flawlessly. He has nothing to offer the man, after all. It’s a fact made more apparent to him during Moriarty’s little “game”. He’s not mentally stimulating and he’s far from interesting but he’s so infatuated with the damn genius that he’ll give and give and ask for nothing in return.

John Watson: a study in unrequited love.

So, yes, the ex-army doctor is mortified at the possibility that Sherlock Holmes has been aware of his feelings the entire time, but John’s humiliation is turning to fire in his veins. If the alpha has known this entire time then there’s no doubt he’s been taking advantage of it and sudden paranoia grips him that he’s the butt of some kind of joke.

“Don’t worry Sherlock. I’ve not deluded myself into thinking you’ve suddenly fallen for me.” John gets up and dumps his tepid cuppa into the sink. He doesn’t need those pitying eyes. “It was just hormones.” God knows the real Sherlock couldn’t feel anything more for him.

Sherlock straightens at the omegas new behaviour. Why is John angry at him? He apologized for forcing himself on him. He’s clarified his disappointing behavior was a one-time slip up. He’s shown concern for John’s well-being, he even made sure that the blond was uninjured before he went to bed.

“And don’t worry, I know it won’t happen again.” _I didn’t want you to get the wrong idea._ John feels like a lovesick teenager being rejected by his crush. He’s well into his thirties and he knows when someone is not interested.

“Did I say something wrong?” Sherlock’s picking a slide up, preparing it meticulously. He considers giving up on trying to understand John’s mood swing completely.

“No. You’ve been honest. That’s all you’ve ever been when it comes to…” He gestures wildly at himself before gesturing towards Sherlock, “this. I get it. Perfect. It’s fine.” John’s face is red from humiliation and anger.

“Obviously not since you’re clearly upset,” Adjusting the dials of the microscope, Sherlock mumbles barely glancing at the small doctor.

“Leave  it, Sherlock. I’m fine, just, listen to me for once. ”And of course the great bastard doesn’t even understand why he’s angry and he can feel is blood pressure rise. Hearing a derisive snort John turns and stalks into the lounge, if he wasn’t still dressed in the clothes he slept in he’d storm out of the flat. Staring around the room he suddenly feels stir crazy so he heads to his room to change. Fresh, Sherlock-free air would do him some good.

Sherlock sits, only half-studying the barbules of the feather in the lens now. He tries to scent the air for John, and catches only that normal _(painfulfrustratingtemptingexcruciating)_ unbonded omega scent. So, no signs of a heat creeping up and no illness. John’s always been expressive and, even when he tried, thoroughly unsuccessful in hiding his emotions but the whiplash mood shifts are more Sherlock’s thing than John’s. Maybe it’s just a hormonal phenomenon, or maybe it’s just a new side of John developing.

Either way, Sherlock opts not to theorize until more evidence can be collected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The more comments and kudos the faster I update. This chapter is short but the good news is that the next chapter is already written and it's over twice the length of this one. Might go back to edit, might not. Much too early to tell.
> 
> Sorry for the confusing alternating POV's but I just want to make sure I address both Sherlock and John's feelings. The next chapter has a bit more action to it.
> 
> I want to spread out the updates but I'm so impatient so it's a real possibility that I'll update tomorrow.


	3. A Scandal on Baker Street Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It won't happen like this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys are only getting this chapter now because I don't want to do my ethnobotany project. I was going to wait a few more days but the need to procrastinate was strong.
> 
> WARNING: There is a small part with unwanted advances, non-consensual touching, and some references to forced bonding. Nothing explicit but it's important to warn you.

Sharp pain at his temple makes him nauseous upon wakening. It’s the only thing he can feel at first but slowly he begins to register the cold seeping through his clothing and a jagged, uneven surface digging into his body. The smell of cigarette smoke and mold make it very clear: This is not Baker Street. He struggles to peel his eyes open when hears voices at the other end of the space. Opening his eyes causes crackles of fresh pain in his skull and he can’t stop the groan that comes out.

It’s a bad move because now those voices are getting closer and they don’t sound friendly. There are four of these men and they’re pretty big, the smallest one standing at six foot, easy. One of them is sucking on a cigarette and studying him. John tries to suppress the uncomfortable shiver that crawls up his spine.

“Looks like our little friend is awake.” A young man in a blue sweatshirt says. He props one foot on John’s hip and pushes the omega from the painful position on his side to a slightly less painful position on his back.

The unfamiliar voices put John on edge but he stays silent, trying to get his bearings. They’ve secured his hands in front of him. Clearly they underestimate him, expecting a docile omega.

 “Good, he won’t miss any of the fun, then,” The blond one says around his cigarette. He’s flicking a small blade absentmindedly. He hasn’t moved from his seat on an old crate. They seem to be in a dank abandoned room; windows boarded over and covered mostly by stacks of boxes and crates. There’s a portable heater in the far corner of the room where his captors were sitting around. Three of his attackers are prowling around him

“Where’d ya find ‘im anyway?” The voice is gruff and it seems to be coming from a wiry beta with an unkempt mustache.

“He’s one of the pigs from the Met. Scotty and I dropped him and his partner. Left his alpha friend at the park.” The guy’s nose looks like it’s been broken enough times before and it suits his nasally voice, “Pretty little omega like this playing cops and robbers? He was asking for it.” He runs a cold hand along John’s jaw and John clenches his teeth to avoid biting at it. He has to wait for the right opportunity if he wants to successfully do this.

“Shit you stole him from his alpha? Our job is to make sure the powder gets to the dealers and take care of the rats, not go taking omegas.”

“Don’t be stupid. He’s unbonded. You can smell it from here.”

Crooked Nose is pushing his face into the crook of John’s neck. “Hell I might throw my lot in to buy this bitch myself.” The man’s breath smells like days old beer. He brings his hands around John’s waist and grabs onto the omega’s lower back, pushing his body against John’s. Seeing his opportunity, John throws himself forward and butts his head against the alpha’s. Tying his hands in front of him was big mistake and he’s determined to make them regret underestimating him when grabs at his kidnappers gun.

Crooked Nose is holding his bleeding face in his hands, groaning, as John stands up pointing his weapon at the others. From the crack John heard, it’s safe to assume he’s broken the man’s nose. Mustache starts moving towards him but freezes when he sees the gun. Hands up in a placating gesture, he shoots a look to the blond alpha still perched on the crate.

“I’ll shoot you before you can move,” John growls at the youngest one, Scotty he thinks, who was pulling his own firearm from his waistband. Cigarette has barely moved from his spot. “I’m going to ask nicely and I’m going to ask once before I start shooting people. Now, please, if you will, tell me where we are.” He’s using the most commanding voice he can muster over the dull ache still throbbing in his head.

The one on the floor is glaring at John through the blood streaming down his face. John’s about to start firing off warning shots when the blond alpha starts chuckling around his cigarette. He’s laughing at John, the man pointing a gun at him, and he’s confused. Before he can focus Scotty is tackling him, hard, onto the cement ground. The gun goes off, firing a bullet uselessly into a pile of boxes in the corner. The guy drives his fist into his face hard and John tastes blood. The gun skitters away but John doesn’t see where.

The others jump into action, delivering a few good kicks and punches before their leader lets out a short whistle, calling them off.

“Hey, idiots, how much money are you going to make off him if he’s got a fucked up face.” He stands up lazily and flicks his cigarette towards the group. Strutting over to a pile of rope, he throws a length of it over to his lackey’s. “Tie him up right this time, Richie, hands and feet. We gotta move out soon.”

Richie, the one with the mustache, grunts and manhandles John onto his front. After securing John’s feet tightly, painfully, together, he gestures at Scotty to help him with John’s hands. The minute they cut the cord around his wrists, John tries to lash out but a strong painful grip to the back of his neck disorients him. A flush of instinctual submission seizes his body and the choking hold makes him lightheaded. With his body trussed up like this, John’s got little mobility.

“Go ahead to the safe house and send out word that the Met is onto us. Don’t let them know we’re looking for the rat. Keep it short.” There’s grumbling and a clatter and John’s trying to focus on the words but his head’s becoming increasingly fuzzy as the pain takes over. “You two: go get the truck ready. And make sure you haven’t been followed or bugged before coming back here or my boss will turn your skin into shoes.” His ribs ache so horribly he hopes he’s not broken anything. He hears feet shuffling as the men move around and leave. Are they going to leave him here? “I’ll take care of this one.”

He knows he’s in danger and pretty much incapacitated but John valiantly tries to shuffle and crawl away, holding back a yell when he falls on his side and jostles his tender ribs.

“Now where are you going, love?” The alpha’s voice is sickly sweet. He’s dragging John up by the ropes around his wrists effortlessly. Face to face, John sees a long scar running down the side from the man’s hairline and along his jaw. “Now it’s just the two of us, John Watson.”

\-----

Sherlock growls as he comes to in the dirt of a small bank off the Thames. He jolts up dislodging the offending hand on his should that’s shaking him awake. He’s about to snap when he sees Lestrade’s face.

“Sherlock what in the hell happened? Have we not talked about this? This is a homicide investigation: do not go running off without bloody fucking back up.” Lestrade fumes at him and Sherlock just winces at the volume, brushing the D.I. off with a dismissive wave.

“We move faster without you and your dog’s anyway.” Sherlock struggles to stand up and grabs his head in his hands as the movement aggravates the agony behind his eyes.

“We?”

“Yes, Lestrade: We. Are you faculties really that stunted? John and –“ John. Sherlock looks frantically around him and doesn’t see the doctor anywhere. They were both ambushed after following the trail of the dealers responsible for murdering six people in a two day time span, yet Sherlock stands alone on the damp grass and smooth gravel. Sherlock’s here yet his attacker and companion are gone. “John’s been taken. Why would they take only John?”

“Wait, John was with you?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes, “Yes, Lestrade. Keep up. We were investigating a lead together before we were jumped…” He explains like he’s talking to a child.

“Lose the attitude you little shit. Oi! Donovan, he’s saying whoever took him out too John with them.”

Sherlock’s tuning out the sound of their chatter and radios. Why? Why take John and not him? Why take either of them at all? He’s running through the facts he’s accumulated about the suspects so far.

The six murders are the only ones they can definitively link to the same person, but Sherlock suspects there are more. That many hits over the course of only forty-eight hours? Someone’s been busy. Hits? Yes, hits, whoever is doing this is purposefully cleaning out a stock of dealers, pimps, and loan sharks. Snitches most likely, but also people taking skimming the profits.  Before their assault, John and him had reduced the possible rendezvous points to two different locations and it appears they were close by. Their thug got nervous and struck out when he saw them getting to close to their hideaway.

Wait. Pimps. The same person calling the hits is the person policing the group of pimps and slave dealers. The underground group selling off Omega’s to the hightest bidder. The realization grips Sherlock hard and he feels sick.

They took John and not him because John’s a perfectly ripe unbonded omega and sure to fetch a good price. If there’s any consolation, it’s that Sherlock knows exactly where the rats are at.

\-----

How did this man know his name? Surely if he knows John’s name then he’ll know he works with Sherlock, and that friendship puts him more danger than anything else.

“If my associates had been smarter, they would’ve put a bullet in the detective’s brain before snatching you up.” John’s still a touch confused but he knows he needs to get away and he squirms in the man’s grip. The blond shakes him a bit and tightens his grip on John’s wrists painfully. “Now, none of that sweetheart. Holmes will be here soon so I’ll need to split before then.” He brings his face close to John’s and the omega can smell the tobacco on his breath. “He cares for you, you know. Honestly cares, possibly even loves if he can even feel that kinda stuff. Jim loves it, thinks it’s the funniest thing in the world. Question is: what does he see in you?”

John lets out an embarrassing whimper at the pressure on his wrists. Eyes widening, “Of course…” the towering alpha pushes his nose into John’s collarbone leaving a trail of warm breath as he moves along John’s throat. A dark chuckle coming from the man’s throat makes John nervous.  “You’re an omega. You’re just convenient fuck for him, aren’t you? Shame he hasn’t bonded with you yet.”

“It’s not like that.” John spits out trying to put some distance between them but his grasp is strong.

“Right,” But his tone is anything but convinced. As stupid as it is in such a dangerous situation while sporting a concussion, multiple contusions, and bruised, possibly cracked, ribs, all John can think about is how tired he is of people thinking Sherlock and him are sleeping together. He’s about to sputter out an exasperated ‘We’re not mated’ but his blood freezes when he feels something warm and wet on his skin. “Yes it’s a _real_ shame he hasn’t bonded with you.”

John wants to throw up when he feels teeth scrape against the spot on his neck where the bonding gland is swelling slightly. Heat is flooding his face and he struggles a bit more but he’s weak and in pain and about half this man’s size. He’s at too much of a disadvantage and it’s mortifying to be this helpless. All it would take is a touch more pressure and the hormones will flood his body and send him into a microheat, _a bonding heat_.

Stimulation to the area makes the endocrine gland pool with the hormones. One of nature’s clever invention, it produces a fake heat that doesn’t release in ovum but allows a bond to happen when time is of the essence. Normally it lasts from about six hours to a full day depending on the age of the omega. The older the omega, the longer it lasts and John’s not exactly young, pushing his mid-thirties. His body is desperate to be mated even when he isn’t and if this man triggers the bonding heat, he knows he won’t so much as struggle.

He’s tense, fearful of what this man will do. Legally, if he’s forcibly bonded and raped here in this shithole ruin of a building to this brute working for Moriarty, he can dissolve the bond, press charges and hunt the bastard down. Biologically, he won’t want to.

Sirens break through the fog of hormones and fear and John jumps a bit and in the split second his mind wanders from the danger with his skin between its teeth, his attacker strikes and bites painfully into the juncture where neck meets shoulder. The pain is near blinding for a second before numbness wiggles its way through his veins and into his limbs. On the positive side of things, at least the throbbing of John’s head and the ache of his body is fading fast.

The blond laves the area where he’s broken skin with his tongue and John hisses at the sting, “Funs over then. I better run before Holmes and his dogs get here.” He lowers the omega gently to the ground but John barely notices a thing beyond his swimming mind and thrumming body. The sudden rush of chemicals in his bloodstream is a shock to the system. He feels a hand pat his head a few times, like a dog, and suddenly he’s feeling too cold without another body pressed against his. “Maybe some other time Watson.”

It feels like hours that he’s propped against a box, trussed up and waiting for help after his kidnapper left, but he’s starting to regain clarity as his hormones even out. The door flying open with a bang makes him jump but his movements are too restricted by the rope rightly wound around his wrist and feet.

“John.” The doctor lets out a relieved breath at the familiar voice. Sherlock. He sees the detective take a brief pause when he sees him before he runs towards John. Sherlock’s frantically pulling at the knots in the rope, getting Johns feet free by the time Lestrade comes running in and tosses the brunet a small army knife. He slices at the binds at John’s wrists, careful with the bruising surrounding them.

“Sherlock, the men,” John’s panting and it’s not a good sign. The heat is coming on fast. “Those men, they’re Mori-….they’re his men.”

“Jesus, John, you okay, mate?” Lestrade is approaching the duo. He freezes several feet from John, his nostrils flaring. John’s only half focusing, trying to articulate something but he’s having difficulties keeping his mind on one stream of thought.

“He’s not obviously.” Sherlock’s gripping the sides of John’s face, trying to get those feverish eyes to look at him. “John, hey, look at me, do you need immediate care? You don’t appear severely injured.”

“I’m bleeding?” John thinks and pats himself. He can’t feel much pain anymore. “My ribs?” Sherlock’s hand fly towards his friends torso, lightly feeling for anything over the omega’s shirt. John starts giggling. It’s ticklish and it feels very good. Brow furrowing in concern Sherlock starts helping the small doctor stand.

Being upright suddenly is disorienting and John grabs desperately at Sherlock’s shoulders to steady himself. Sherlock eases towards the door, encouraging John to take a step but his knees suddenly feel like gelatin and he’s falling against the detective’s chest and Sherlock’s hit with the scent of an omega in heat. He spots a small spot of blood on John’s shoulder right where his omega endocrine gland would be. The bastard bit him and at that realization Sherlock feels his chest burn with anger.

“We need to get him to a hospital.” Lestrade is watching the interaction and even though John seems pretty out of it, the blood dripping down his chin and the bruises blooming on the blonds face are concerning. He takes a tentative step forward –

“Stay away.” The words are an almost unintelligible snarl and Sherlock’s arms are wrapped possessively around John.

John’s shaking and whimpering a bit in the embrace but he doesn’t look like he’s trying to fight. This could get real messy real fast and Lestrade knows he’s going to need to tread lightly. He’s not dealing with Sherlock much at this point, but an alpha with an omega in heat within his reach. The pheromones in the air don’t have quite the same effect on Lestrade, he’s an alpha that’s been bonded before and he’s got a stronger hold of his instincts. He just needs to snap Sherlock out of it.

While Lestrade generally trusts Sherlock, this is a dangerous situation. John never explicitly gave consent and he can’t in this state, on top of being injured and kidnapped. He needs to be somewhere safe.

Lestrade waits for Sherlock’s eyes to clear a bit before approaching again. “We’ll get you guys back to Baker Street, but you have to promise to get him checked out, okay?”

“I want to go home.” Sherlock looked unsure about the suggestion at first, but John’s pitiful mumbling into his chest changes his mind instantly. He nods at the detective inspector and follows him out to his cruiser, Lestrade helping Sherlock mostly drag the omega out of the abandoned building.

Sherlock’s nature telling him to push away the other Alpha and find somewhere private for him to care for and bond his omega but he’s fighting to stay in control.

On the ride home John’s lucidity returns almost completely and he knows it won’t be long judging from the cramps between his pelvis and the sweat gathering at the nape of neck.  He’s trying to ask questions about the case but the answers are curt and frustrating and he gives up on trying to distract everyone from the elephant in the car.

“Did you catch the men who grabbed me?”

Ah. This question gets a reaction. Sherlock tightens an arm around John’s waist pulling him in close and Lestrade’s eyes snap up to his rear-view mirror to make eye contact with John.

“We got two of them. They were driving a truck.”

“There was a big one, blond buzz cut and big arms. He was the boss, I think.” John’s knows he’s still out there. He looks towards Sherlock, “He’s the one working for Moriarty. Kept calling him ‘Jim’. Said we were funny to him.”

John can practically see the great mind whirring with the new information but Sherlock doesn’t respond.

 “Erm, thanks John. I’ll try to see what we can do with that. From the look of it, that’s the first confirmed connection we’ve got between Moriarty and the hits.” Lestrade is trying to focus on the case, not the omega in heat sitting in the backseat or the instinctual response curling deep in his stomach.

It’s awkwardly silent again and stays like that until they reach their flat. Lestrade is helping John out of the car and as he helps the unstable man out from the back seat, John grabs desperately to the sleeve of Lestrade’s coat.

“Greg please I need to talk to you.” John’s eyes are wide with fear and Lestrade opens his mouth to reply, glancing at the detective who’s watching anxiously on the sidewalk. “Please.” John’s pleading and Lestrade snaps at Sherlock.

“Sherlock, run upstairs and start a hot water bath for John. It’ll help him with the worst of the cramps.” Sherlock gives Lestrade an appraising stare, suspicious. “I was bonded before, I do know a bit about omegas.”

Reluctantly Sherlock runs up the stairs ahead of him and Lestrade half drags John into the atrium.

“Please Greg I need your help.” Immediately Lestrade is worried his missed something, a serious injury or something. The panic in John’s voice disturbs him. “I need you to keep Sherlock away from me.”

“You don’t actually think he’d..?.” Lestrade knows things can get violent between alpha’s and omegas during bonding, especially when the omega shows reluctance but these men are best friends. Yet here is John more shaken then he’s ever seen the stoic army doctor at the idea of Sherlock getting to him during his heat.

“No, god, no. But when it gets bad I won’t be able to control myself. I know I won’t, and if I drop and present in the middle of a bonding heat….well, how many alpha’s do you know could say no to that?” Lestrade’s blushing at the mental image, but he understands the concern. Bonding and consent laws get sticky and John is making his stand very clear as long as he’s still lucid: He doesn’t want to bond. He’s withholding consent. “He doesn’t want this, Greg. I mean, you could imagine Sherlock Holmes having to be domestic? The chemicals coming from my body are manipulating him, forcing him. He’ll resent me if this happens. I don’t want it to happen like this.”

And a horrible realization strikes D.I. Lestrade and he’s vocalizing it before he can stop.

“You love him, don’t you?”

John’s chewing his bottom lip guiltily as he nods in response, refusing to meet the man’s eyes.

Lestrade lets out a pitying sigh and runs the hand not holding John up through his greying hair. “Yeah, yeah, I’ll help you.”

John’s thanking him as they struggle up the stairs together and he realizes that he’s going to lose his senses again soon, and probably for the last time before this painful heat let’s up. They have to pause on the landing when a cramp hits John so bad his knees nearly buckle from the pain. Waiting for the agonizing ripples to stop, he waves Lestrade to carry on.

“I’ll have to tranq him, you know. If I try to approach him, he’ll go feral and think I’m challenging him.” It’s required for officers to carry tranquilizers along with their firearms because it’s not too uncommon to come across feral alphas that would be too difficult to subdue without serious injury.

John gives a solemn nod. He’ll be out of his heat before the sedative wears off and he makes sure to tell Lestrade to inform Mrs. Hudson about their situation so she can check on Sherlock while John’s incapacitate. They split up on the landing of flat B and John makes his agonizing way up to his room.

He locks the door to his room and pushes his small dresser in front of it for good measure. He strips down to his underwear in an attempt to cool off some. As John lies in bed, and feels the tell-tale wetness in the seat of his pants, he burrows deeper under the covers and dreads the next twenty hours.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just so you're aware A Scandal on Baker Street was only supposed to be one chapter but I wrote it and it was just wayyyyy to long to post as one chapter so I split it into three different parts.
> 
> Don't expect the next chapter to be up so quickly! You've been spoiled with updates every few days. It'll probably be about a week until the next chapter is up.
> 
> Sex and dubious biology come to those who wait


	4. A Scandal on Baker Street Finale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's you, John Watson

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long! I got distracted by some side projects, so keep an eye open for those. Editing will happen when it happens.
> 
> tags will change for the next chapter.

John was wrong about being up before Sherlock; he didn’t take into account having to recover not only from a microheat but from a kidnapping as well. On top of that, Sherlock most likely burned through the sedative faster than the average person would, with his dubious past where drugs are involved. When John does wake, it’s with a pitiful groan as every ache in his body becomes known. He keeps his eyes resolutely shut, hesitant to move and aggravate his sore body. Gods he would be perfectly content to never move again for the rest of his life.

His gunmetal eyes snap open at the sensation of a warm wet cloth running down his back. He jolts forward, away from the strange sensation and immediately regrets the sudden movement. He bites back the moan of pain.  Looking over his shoulder at the intruder he sees a Sherlock with wide eyes, towel in one hand and basin in the other. He’s shocked for a moment and they just stare into each other’s eyes, alarm, confusion, and concern shifting between them, before John returns to his senses.

“Sherlock what in God’s name are you doing in here.”

“Mrs. Hudson was worried about you, she implied you be in some amount of…discomfort when you awake. I assumed you’d want to retain some modesty between you and our landlady so I volunteered to assist you.” Sherlock’s shifting a bit nervously in his seat on the edge of John’s bed as he returns to washcloth to the water, “I worked out that you’d prefer me than her to see you like this.” After gesturing vaguely and John’s person, he suddenly becomes very aware of the state he’s in.

His belly is covered in drying and flaking semen and he’d fallen asleep in a disgusting wet spot full of his own excretions. There are a couple of spots of blood stained into his sheets here and there, from wounds that went uncared from the evening before mixing with dried sweat and tears.  When he looks up, dazed, he doesn’t miss the laser-focused look on Sherlock’s face. Following his gaze, he realizes the detective is staring rather unabashedly at the soft flesh of John’s stomach trailing down to land on his flaccid penis lying against his bruised thigh. John’s face flushes a deep red as he pulls up a sheet to cover his naked body. He’s never been shy about his body before, that kind of modesty is quickly stripped on the field and in the army, but having that analytic stare focused on his small (although fairly standard to bigger than average for an omega) prick and his soft torso makes him suddenly self-conscious. He’s lost his toned physique after being shot. The infection and recovery stripped him of the muscles he’d worked hard for, and being hindered by a psychosomatic limp made keeping fit an ordeal, even now his erratic sleep patterns and too-much takeaway made up for the all the running around London the duo did. He was by no way pudgy or overweight, but he was no longer as young and fit as he was once. It shouldn’t matter to him, but he felt like he didn’t need to give the detective another reason to not want him.

Sherlock swallowed audibly, tearing his eyes from the  soft, enticing, body in front of him, and gave an embarrassed cough before speaking, “I know you’d prefer not to wake up covered in…well, you know, everything and it would be much too difficult to attempt to maneuver you, unconscious, down the stairs and into the shower. I brought a bottle of water for you too, in case you did wake up. I can leave this here and you can finish up the, erhm, sponge bath yourself, although you’ll be quite sore from your, ah, activities of last night and you’ll need help to bandage up some of the wounds. I can leave and come back when you need my help? Or I could not come back at all, although I imagine you’re quite hungry so I can send Mrs. Hudson up later…” What no shut up, shut up, _shut up_.

John stared, a bit slack-jawed at the man rambling in front of him. He’s never seen Sherlock so…flustered. It’s a bit unnerving, if comical, really. He’s too shocked to notice that Sherlock’s barrage has trailed off awkwardly and they are both just staring at each other, John shocked and Sherlock wide-eyed and more insecure than John has ever seen him. 

Shaking himself, John mumbles out, “Oh uh um yes no thanks I think I can make it to the shower downstairs if you could, I mean if you don’t mind…” John looks over at his dressing gown draped over the top of his bureau. Sherlock nods enthusiastically as he rushes to retrieve the item for his friend.  Handing it to the battered omega, he turns to give him some privacy. Sure that Sherlock was facing the other way; John rose slowly from his bed, clutching the sheets to himself. He keeps a moan of pain to himself as straightens up and slips on the gown. When he takes a step forward, a gasp escapes him and Sherlock turns to rush back to his side.

“John?”

“No I’m fine, my legs just feel a bit like gelatin. Just help me to the shower; I’ll be fine once I’m under some hot water.” Sherlock offers his arm stiffly, and John takes it leaning heavily against the man. The detective is surprisingly strong and the trip down the stairs and across the hall is easy. John tries not to think of the solid warm body that has his brain screaming _Strong!Virile!Perfect!Safe!,_ brushing it off as residual hormones.  Sherlock has his own study in self-control as he tries to ignore the soft body barely concealed by the thin cloth of his dressing gown.

He let himself think for a second, as the pair maneuvered awkwardly into the too-small bathroom, that he’d like to hold John like this, wrapped in his bed, waking up with this pliant gold body clutching him. He thought about how his yellow hair would glitter in the morning light breaking through the window, the sleepy way he’d look at Sherlock, adore him, kiss him…

He could have had it too, if John had let him in last night. Instead he had Lestrade sedate him. The idea that his omega had trusted another alpha has something snarling in the back of his mind. Realizing that John had felt unsafe with Sherlock in his vulnerable state causes something ugly to simmer in his ribcage; a sensation he can’t name but wants gone all the same.

He lowers John onto the toilet lid and starts the water, as hot as he can get the pipes to pump out, “I can do that, you’re free to do, uhmm, experiments or, uh, whatever.” John’s mortified enough covered in bruises and his own fluids, he wants some time for self-loathing and pity.

Sherlock freezes, bent over the lip of the tub, hands on the taps; Why was he still in here, anyway? Doting on John? He was on autopilot, and he’s sure if he’d gone uninterrupted he would have stripped John and placed him in the tub, scrubbing him down until he was clean and relaxed, taking great care around the bruises on his body. The large multi-colored one marking the expanse of the doctor’s ribs made his inner alpha growl with concern and anger.

“I-“ He doesn’t want to leave John here, stiff and pale against the cheap tiles. He straightens up and looks at his hands, confused by their need to reach out and soothe his friend. “I don’t want to leave you here.” John’s head snaps up, a tense ‘what?’ leaving his mouth. Sherlock looks to John, his silver eyes cutting John to the core, fingers twisted in the cloth of his trousers to keep from reaching out to the omega “I want to take care of you.”

John can only stare because they’re words he wants, but not what he’d ever expected, to hear. It’s painful to love someone who doesn’t want him but he’d accepted that a while ago, deciding he’d rather have whatever he can get. If he can only have Sherlock as a friend and a flatmate, that’s fine, because it’s better than not having him at all. It’s so tempting to let those words burrow into his heart and fill him with warm hope but John’s pragmatic so he lets out a low disbelieving chuckle.

“No, Sherlock, you don’t.” He’s exhausted and he wonders how often Sherlock’s actually been exposed to omegas,  “You’re smelling pain markers and residual heat pheromones. It’s my body; it’s just tricking you into thinking those things.” Painful, god, it hurts to say it out loud, “It’s not real.”

Denial is spilling from his lips because John has never been so wrong and how could he even think that but John’s looking at him with pleading eyes, “Please, can I have some privacy?”

Every fibre of his being is saying not to leave the omega alone like this, with these thoughts running in his mind but it’s not his place.  He nods, and leaves him sitting there.

Shutting the door behind him quietly, he makes his way to the den and assumes his thinking pose on the length of the sofa. Could this be all it is? Biology and instinct?

Was the night at the pool his own actions? No, the alpha felt his omega, a potential mate, had been threatened and he was driven to stake his claim. Then there was his fierce protectiveness last night. Of course he’d been concerned, John had been taken by idiotic drug smugglers but the spicy scent of John’s heat had flipped a switch in his brain and all he could feel was the overwhelming urge to sink himself into that delicious wet heat-

-but running that warm cloth over John earlier had nothing to do with biology. No hormones made him want to kiss away each bruise on his doctor’s body or promise him he won’t let anyone hurt him again. It wasn’t his alpha side that told him not to use John’s favorite mug to hold severed index fingers. No pheromones drove him to play his most soothing compositions on his violin when he knew John was in the throes of a nightmare.

The pained way John had said “It’s not real”, punched the air from his lungs, but the fact that John wouldn’t look him in the eyes when he said it speaks volumes. Those words sounded so practiced, like John was used to hearing them but when he muttered them in the steam-filled bathroom he wasn’t talking to Sherlock, the body language was all wrong for that…no it was like he was reminding himself, showing restraint.

Objectively, Sherlock can read John’s patterns of behaviour and give a diagnosis like he would any factor on a case. Honestly, Sherlock can’t handle the reality of it. He’s at a literal blank, a limbo his mind hasn’t seen since his first hit of cocaine, mind palace blown empty with  one epiphany ringing along the white walls: John wants him. John Doesn’t think Sherlock wants him back.

“Idiot.”

\-----

Clients are nearly constantly visiting the flat and there’s no shortage of interesting cases. Well, interesting enough for the consulting detective to deem worth his time. It’s great news for Sherlock’s mind, and subsequently, their walls, but bad news for John’s social life.

He won’t lie; the forced bonding heat was utterly unsatisfying when he could smell the tempting reek of fertile alpha so close yet he was stuffing himself full of cold silicone. Now he’s just sexually frustrated, trolling small pubs and bars just looking for a willing beta or alpha to make him feel full. He’s trying to tell himself it’s not about the sex, it’s about wanting a real relationship, but mainly all he can think about his having a real knot filling him up when his real heat hits.

Then there’s Irene Adler, with strong shoulders, long legs and a sinful mouth, but she’d dismissed John the minute he walked in on her covering his detective with her naked body. It didn’t matter that she was an alpha, John saw her as competition and a small omega growl rumbled from his chest before he could control it. Luckily, John never had to explain the slip up to his flatmate but he’d noticed a definite increase in casual touches and lingering hands. He tried not to dwell on the physical contact, and put his energy into working out his sexual frustration. Maybe he’d be able to find someone to get his mind off the lovesick jealousy of watching Sherlock obsess over the mysterious woman with the camera phone.

And he’s so close to finally getting a leg over with a gorgeous and tall alpha teacher when Sherlock practically chases her out of the flat without so much as lifting a finger.

“I don’t know what kind of kinky things you and your alpha are into but I’m not interested.” Jeanette is storming off the sofa and John chases after her.

“My alpha? No, I’ve told you, he’s not my alpha we’re just- “

“Flatmates, I know. I thought maybe you were telling the truth despite how you’re absolutely covered in his scent. No bondmark, no children, and no bonded omega would be allowed by his alpha to go running around pubs by himself...” She’s fixing the lapels on her coat, and snatching her purse. “But seeing you two together…what? Does he get off on watching his omega with others? Well I can’t do that John, sharing an omega, well, it’s not natural, it’s so un-alpha…” Her tone turns soft and there’s a distinct look of pity, “and it’s not right to treat you like that. It’s not healthy for you.” John’s expression sours at the insinuation that he’s a delicate creature to be taken care of, but Jeanette continues, “I can provide for you John, take you away from this sociopath. We could be so happy, our children would be beautiful. Just don’t make me compete with Sherlock Holmes.” John does roll his eyes at that declaration.

“He’s not using me. We are just friends, not that I have to explain myself to you because this is over.” He pushes the door open, “you can leave now, thank you.”

She walks across the threshold, sadly, “Dear god, he’s brainwashed you, you poor thing-“

“Nooo.” John sings out before pulling the door closed tightly behind him.

He runs a hand over his exhausted face. He thought Jeanette might actually be a long-term thing, or at least a good couple of heats but her obviously archaic way of thinking was too much. John lets out a hysteric laugh at the way she insinuated Sherlock had been mistreating him in some way. Surely there has to be one willing alpha in the greater London area who finds John worth their time-

_“-you’re absolutely covered in his scent.”_

John holds his wrist to his face and pulls a deep breath, then cranes his neck to take a whiff of his shoulder, chest, and upper arm: anywhere he can reach. Nothing. He doesn’t smell anything. Is it possible Sherlock’s been leaving markers so long John hasn’t even noticed? It’s such a strange thing for him to do, considering the detective has barely paid him any attention since the whole thing with Irene Adler started. Why can’t anything just be easy?

He’d spend more time on the subject but his mobile is ringing and the screen reading Mycroft Holmes is telling him the following conversation will require all his brain-power.

\------

John’s hoping he’s hallucinating because the very last person  he wants to see is casting a silhouette on the concrete in front of him. It’s not Mycroft, like he originally thought, and right now he’d take the elder Holmes over the spectre in front of him and the only thought echoing in his head is: _Sherlock._

“Are you jealous?” God that smug tone has John’s skin prickling

“We’re not a couple.”

“You could be.” The ease with which she has dissected the relationship between the two men make John very aware that he’s just another pawn in the game between two geniuses, “You’re so pathetically attracted to him, like a lovesick puppy. He’s territorial; leaving scent markers anyone can smell ten yards away. So _yes_ you are.” John wants to chin her so badly he’s amazed he’s barely moved.

“For the record – I’m an _Omega_ , it’s normal. Natural. Just hormones and biology. Nothing more.” It’s physical. It’s the only thing it could be.

“Well, _I am not_ , but look at us both.” Honestly, males of all secondary genders can be so absolutely oblivious.

John is fighting the taunts.  Adler knows and she’s baiting him and he’d care more if he had any embarrassment left. He’s confused by the mixed signals Sherlock’s been giving him but he’s always confused by the man. He’s always hard to understand by almost everyone. John refuses to give himself any false pretenses that Sherlock cares for him more than just a best friend because he thinks it could be anything more and he’s wrong….it’s unthinkable. This has to be enough for him.

“My hormones are doing this to him, manipulating him-“

He hears it: the retched moan that haunted the flat day in and day out before they’d seen a corpse in the likeness of Irene Adler stretched out beneath Molly’s careful hands. Sherlock’s been here this whole time. He’s heard everything and _oh_ the things the genius can derive from every heavy word that left John’s mouth.

He starts forward towards the noise but Adler holds her hand out, halting him, “I don’t think so.”

\-----

“Stop that.” At a questioning look from John, the detective gives a long-suffering sigh, “ _Thinking._ You’re thinking too _loud._ ”

John rolls his eyes at the man, poised gracefully by the window. He’d returned Irene Adler’s files to Mycroft, exactly one camera phone light, and came back to find him cradling his Stradivarius, bow at the ready as if he’s about to start his own private concert. He settled into his armchair, anticipating the ear splitting screeches and melodic low notes Sherlock oscillates between when he’s deep in his mind, but the man just stood there like a statue.

The Woman’s presence had thrown a new problem into their relationship. It was making John wonder about Sherlock’s past, and how little he knew. Mycroft’s taunting “ _How would you know?_ ” at the palace twisted in the back of his mind. Sherlock obsessively researches the most contrite topics, yet neglects the absolute basic aspects of human nature. So what category does sex fall under?

Was Sherlock truly a virgin? No, he couldn’t be…could he?

“Despite what Mycroft has implied: I am no stranger to sexual relations. The overdressed cow is just embarrassingly old fashioned. He doesn’t consider someone a true Alpha until they’ve penetrated an omega.” John’s never really liked Sherlock’s ability to read him like one of his textbooks, and he’s never been less appreciative of it than he is now.

“So…you have…you know…with, uh, people- someone” He’s a doctor for Christ sakes, yet he’s stammering and waving his hands around instead of discussing sex like an adult.

“Hmmm. Yes.”

“But not omegas.”

“No.”

“Okay.” So there it was. No omega’s apparently, so either beta’s or other alpha’s.

It wasn’t unheard of for alphas to go for other alphas, but it wasn’t common either. Sherlock didn’t bother himself with many people. In fact, he could only pick three people his majesty has deemed worth his time at all: James Moriarty, Irene Adler, and himself. Two-thirds of that short list are alpha’s, and he could say with absolute certainty that he’d never seen the man react to anyway quite the same way he reacted to The Woman. Sherlock takes pride in being a social deviant, a self-proclaimed sociopath, and he’s never really been common so is it so far a stretch that the detective is gay? He’s got a fertile omega sitting in his flat every night, and he’s as possessive over John as he is his violin or his skull, but he doesn’t jump the blond doctor unless under hormonal stress: could it be that he only goes after other alphas? Not that there is anything wrong with it, he meant what he said that first night: it’s all fine.

“ _Oh for god’s sake_!” A harsh scrape of horsehair on taut strings makes John wince. Sherlock is testily storming around the desk, taking care to place his violin gently in the case. John stares, wondering at the reason for the outburst.  Frustrated hands rake through the riot of dark curls, before being thrown exasperatedly away at his sides. “I’m not _gay_ either! Brush the dust off your slowing mental processes and _think_ , John!”

John jumps, instinctually intimidated by the unmistakable tone of an angry alpha. He meets the detective’s eyes and his startled by the fiery power they hold. Sherlock stalks toward John’s armchair and cages the man in, gripping the threadbare armrests. His face is so close John can smell cigarette smoke with every wild exhale (a complaint he files away for a later time). John’s pushed himself as far back as the chair will allow but Sherlock just follows, those sea glass eyes and sharp cheekbones are dominating his field of vision.

“It’s not biology, it’s not pheromones, and it’s not my sexuality,” He’s impossibly close and his lips are so close to John’s ear he fights an anxious shiver. “ _It’s you_ , _John.”_ The words are a humid wisp of air against the shell of his ear.

Before the implications fully hit him, the warmth is gone, backing away and disappearing into the room at the end of the hall with a soft ‘ _snik’_ as the door closes behind it.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Chapter will be titled: The Reichenbach Fuck
> 
> You would have had this chapter two days ago but the internet went out and well don't even get me started.
> 
> Small note to address anatomy and physiology in my omegaverse:
> 
> Female alpha's have dicks, male omega's have wombs. Female alpha's can't bear children and male omega's can't sire children. Dubious biology at best but this is fanfiction not science class.
> 
> I tried not to focus on the Irene Adler case too much because it's almost the complete same as what happened in the canon, any changes that were made to fit the story are addressed. There will be nasty omegaverse sex next chapter, or at least a good attempt at it. 
> 
> Also, Reichenbach. It has to happen. Sorry.
> 
> Reminder: tags will change next chapter.
> 
> (what? mpreg? waht???)


	5. The Reichenbach Fuck

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Leave notes.  
> Music notes. Love notes. Suicide Notes.

There were the small things that Sherlock is doing that John hardly notices. Crowding John, away from wandering eyes and potential danger, keeping the flat warm, pulling John out to dinner more often but not dragging him out more than necessary…a voice in the back of the most basic parts of Sherlock’s brain is driving him. Sherlock is painstakingly aware of his actions, despite John’s average level of obtuseness. He knows what he’s doing but he can’t stop himself, physically cannot keep his hands from serving John a little more at meals or wrapping John’s scarf just a little tighter around his delicate throat. Although Sherlock himself finds it hard to relax, too keen to protect the small omega from predators, he still had enough time in the day to hate his stupid biology for the distractions.

But they’re still not talking, not quite like they used to. Sherlock is in the flat more than he usually is. In fact, John can’t think of a time when Sherlock left without him. Even when the moody detective leaves for the morgue or for some other science related jaunt, he comes up with an excuse for why he needs John with him. He isn’t stupid; the man is a doctor for god’s sake. It’s obvious to the two of them that Sherlock is keen on keeping the smaller man within ear shot. That still doesn’t mean they are on good terms, though.

Then came the Baskerville case and everything had seemed to boil over.

“- doubt, John. I’ve never doubted myself, my senses. Now, I’m doubting, and not just this ‘hound’ but everything – _because of you_ …because of how you make me _feel._ ” Sherlock’s got such a tight hold of his arm and he’s pulled the blond omega so close all he can smell is the detective and he’s so damn angry at him but still he wants to get closer and bury his nose in that warm scent.  “And now this hound, that I saw but couldn’t have possibly been there. How?”

“Well good luck with that,” John pulls his arm from the alpha’s grasp and continues his path through the cemetery.

“Listen, what I said before, John. I meant it.”  And John has to stop walking because if he takes another step it’s going to be towards the detective to put a fist in his face.

“I don’t have friends” And John is really going to hit him- “I’ve just got one” and John’s body seems to uncoil a bit when he sees the nervous schoolboy glances Sherlock’s throwing between John and the ground. It’s such a vulnerable look on the detective.

“Right…”

“I know I don’t know a lot about friends but actually I don’t think he’s just a friend.” Sherlock’s taking long strides towards him, “I don’t think this is how a friend feels for another friend. This is more. Definitely more,” Johns frozen in the suddenly intense stare of the detective who is so close, “I love you, John.”

John’s still in shock when Sherlock starts kissing him and he wants to shout it back, that he loves him, too so _so_ much but his mind is still trying to catch up. He still feels like he kind of wants to punch the man, but he’s pretty sure it’s the normal amount. Then suddenly the kiss is over and Sherlock’s rambling about brilliant and fantastic and conductors of lights and acronyms.

And John is only smiling, watching the manic ranting because the case is back on and Sherlock loves him and he loves Sherlock and he hopes when he wakes up in the morning that this hasn’t been some kind of experimental drug induced dream.

====

“Sherlock…” There’s an audible gulp as John tries to steady his voice, “There’s a mass-murderer on the loose.” A particularly wicked nip to the sensitive patch on his neck makes his knees buckles. Sherlock’s strong arms around his waist pull him in closer and tighter and he can barely breathe through the pheromones in the air. “This- ah, this is not the best time.”

“You smell delicious, mostly…”

“Smell?,” Sherlock growls softly as John tries to put space between them. He pushes himself away a few more centimeters in a very mature huff. “Sherlock, what exactly do I smell like?”

 _Like sex, breeding, submission, delicate skin, so absolutely fuckable_ \- “Heat. Early stages.” The small fold between Sherlock’s eyes mark his confusion, “You’ve been skipping your medicines. You shouldn’t smell like that.”

And John remembers the silver packet tucked mostly neglected in the top drawer of his desk. He’d been taking them when he could remember but the back to back cases have ruined any sense of organization he had. The new business with Moriarty threw what little order he had out the window. But there were no pre-heat symptoms, no nesting, no binging…but still, there’s no doubting Sherlock’s alpha nose. A heat now is the next to the most inconvenient thing that could have occurred. Beyond that, they’re new relationship is just too young…it’s too early on to share a heat.

John loves Sherlock, trusts him so implicitly, like he never thought he could even trust someone. But he doesn’t know how Sherlock feels about him. This makes him so open and vulnerable and there’s a good chance this could end in total heartbreak.

“It’s coming on very quickly John.” The conflicting emotions are flashing across his bloggers face like a film. Sherlock knows that they were very clear to each other: they don’t want their first time together to be during a heat, when his animal brain is taken over by his rut. He doesn’t know how to voice the danger they face and the risk Sherlock chose for himself. He doesn’t know how this will end but he can hypothesize it’ll be with either Moriarty or himself being taken to a special room and burned. Maybe both of them. He doesn’t know. _He doesn’t know._ There’s an ache building in his ribcage because this might be his only chance to be John.

If John said no, right now, Sherlock would step away. It would take all his will power and that ache in his chest would probably implode.

“Too quickly. I don’t think it’s a full heat. Usually I can feel symptoms for a week before the worst hits.” Maybe we’ll be able to remember some of it?” Sherlock feels his lungs tighten because the future is so looming and horrible and uncertain, “It’s probably just from all the stress and irregularity with my birth control and –”

“You said you believed in me. You know I’m for real.” John has no idea where Sherlock is going with this so he’s listening so carefully. The pleading look on the alpha’s face is pulling at him to be cautious. “You trust me, John, so please trust me now.” He’s never seen those sea-green eyes round and unsure like that, but he has faith in his detective. John feels like he’ll choke if he tries to speak so he just nods, solemnly, afraid of what it means.

“Why now? Why all of a sudden. You said you wanted to take this slow and Sherlock-this is not slow.” Sherlock Holmes doesn’t really have tells, but John knows him well enough to know when there’s something off, even for him.

“Somethings going to happen tomorrow, isn’t it?” Sherlock stills but doesn’t look John in the face.  A kiss is planted on the soft skin of John’s throat, so soft he can barely believe it’s from the same man who was marking him enthusiastically two minutes ago. It’s delicate, the way leaves fall to the ground when the seasons change and the trees are bare. Things are going to change, and Sherlock knows but won’t divulge his secrets. That gentle kiss is a promise and plea: Trust me, please. You can trust me.

 “I trust you.” Is all he can choke out. John’s terrified, more terrified than he thinks he’s ever been…and he invaded Afghanistan! But the fear fades as Sherlock strips him of his clothes, peeling off button down and practically ripping the trousers from John’s legs. Sherlock takes only a bit more care with his own clothes, the stuck up _arse_. Finally, they’ve been stripped bare and John addicted to the skin contact, grabbing at the alpha desperately from his perch on the edge of the detective’s bed.

It’s still so early on, Sherlock worries about hurting John who is squirming pathetically against the duvet, his slick staining the soft cloth. There’s a whimpering sound emanating from the blond omega and it’s so  out of character it nearly cracks Sherlock’s heart in two. He holds those slim hips still, stopping the rutting partly to ground his omega and partly because he doesn’t want any more of the deliciously musky fluid being wasted.

“Shhhh…” He tries to calm John who is reaching towards him, wanting him closer, and needing to be filled. Sherlock wants to, gods, does he want to give the small man what he wants. His erection is throbbing, the knot already starting to swell a little around the base, and his blood is racing instincts screaming at him to impale the small body on his cock, make the world know whose he is. “Shhh…John _calm._ ”

John’s not completely lost to his hormones; he knows it’s Sherlock that’s pushing him down into the mattress, his spicy scent filling his senses. He’s able to understand the words being muttered to him even though he doesn’t agree and he just wants Sherlock to get on with it because he’s burning with fever. Sherlock’s crawling beneath his legs, his mouth warm on his stomach while he litters it with kisses that do nothing to cool his heated skin.

“Sherlock…” He’s panting so hard it’s embarrassing, “Sherlock…just-”When he feels those slender talented fingers near his entrance his blood feels like its on fire, “Get on with it!”  Sherlock’s got three fingers flexing and curling in the tight passage, and he’s sucking red marks along John’s inner thighs. Had this been any other time, John would have loved the foreplay and teasing but in the desperate, wanton state he’s in now, he’s quickly getting frustrated. He knows Sherlock’s enjoying it that prick.

When John’s squirming becomes more adamant, and a whine is starting to pick up in his throat, Sherlock knows he needs to move this along. He’s trying to prolong this, savor it, these possible last moments. Sherlock also worries that with the heat coming on so quickly, John’s body isn’t prepared enough for mounting.  His teeth begin to ache and he realizes just how hard he’s clenching his teeth, attempting to maintain his control. His cock aches and pulses. He scissors and stretches his digits one last time before withdrawing them. Sherlock leans back on his haunches, and as soon as his weight is off John, the small omega begins to scramble, quickly trying to flip on his belly, instinct telling him to present. Before John can turn completely, Sherlock halts him with a firm grip on his waist.

 _“Please_ John” John’s royal blue eyes are wide and glazed, confused by his alpha, “I want to see you.” And John nods, understanding before settling back down, arms reaching up beckoning the detective closer.

Sherlock leans over him, hunched slightly and balancing all his weight on one arm to come face to face with the doctor. Their faces centimeters apart, their panting breaths mixing in the humid, warm atmosphere surrounding them; Sherlock’s free hand is stroking John’s waist and down his thighs, pulling his leg up by the knee to rest on his hip. John wraps his leg around the alpha’s slim figure. Sherlock’s guiding his cock towards John’s wet opening, the swollen head just starting to breach the sensitive rim.

 _“Sherlock.”_ John’s body is thrumming, electrified, terrified, thrilled, overwhelmed. His eyes are watering. Even without this, without the threat of Moriarty, the trial, the kidnappings, everything, John knows, and maybe has known since the beginning, _“I love you”._

Those beautiful blue eyes are so open, dampened with tears, honest. Sherlock is nearly stunned by the display. His lungs have nearly stopped in his chest. John Watson is trusting him so completely, he’s given him his beating bloody heart to have. John has done something no substance or mystery on earth could accomplish: he’s stopped Sherlock Holmes’ mind. He can’t think. He’s stuck on the beautiful creature in front of him.

He crashes their mouths together with such passion and force he worries for a split second about busted lips. He’s forcing himself in further as the kiss deepens, pushing through John’s heated flesh. The delicious slick grip on his cock knocks the breath from his lungs. Nothing could ever feel better than this. John breaks the kiss to gasp, his eyes are clenched tight as he grits his teeth. Sherlock takes a moment to gather himself as John breathes deeply through the splitting pain. It’s not horrible, not unbearable, he just has to force himself through the initial penetration. A small whine escapes his lips, and Sherlocks icy eyes snap to his face, worried.

“John _, shhhhh._ I’m sorry John.” He still won’t open his eyes but Sherlock keeping an iron tight grip on his self-control to stay still and let John adjust to his girth. The unshed tears from a few moments ago are starting to leave trails down John’s fever red cheeks. It hurts, but he knows it’ll pass. “ _Shhhhh_ ….I won’t move until you say it’s okay. Breathe.” The last thing Sherlock wants to do is hurt the small omega but he’s hoping it’s not too long before he can move because the sensations around the most vulnerable part of his body is nearly overwhelming his discipline.

After what feels like an eternity, John wraps his arms around Sherlock neck, kisses the corner of his mouth sweetly, and nods. Sherlock is excited, but keeps himself in check as he pulls out just a bit and shallowly thrusts back in. He keeps a slow pace, pulling out further and further each time before thrusting back into that consuming heat.

John can feel the fever both dulling and increasing. He can’t explain it. Suddenly he’s not in pain, desperate with want, but drowning in a burn that’s becoming increasingly more and more pleasurable with every rock of their bodies together. Sherlock’s picking up speed and high moans are escaping John on each thrust in, he’ll be embarrassed afterwards about the sounds coming from him but for now he’s going to ride the waves of hormones, pheromones, and carnal instinct.

Watching John unravel beneath his body is making Sherlock burst with pride, and before long he’s lost in the sensations. Pistoning in and out of the beautiful omega doctor, growls rumbling from deep in his chest; it’s like a high he’s never experienced before.  He wants this to last forever and it almost feel like they’ve been rutting for days before he feels himself catching on John’s rim with every thrust. The knot at the base of his penis, designed by nature to keep an alpha and omega together to improve insemination and bonding, is swelling to full size. Before long, Sherlock can only give shallow thrusts when his knot is inflated too much to allow him to move freely.

He nearly halts all movement when he hears John’s raspy, quiet voice, “Knot me”

“ _John…_ ” this can’t be true, “Are you sure?” are you absolutely sure, John?

“ _Oh God, yes_ ”

If Sherlock Holmes was a better man, he wouldn’t do this. But he’s not. He can’t pass this up, his only friend, the man he loves in front of him asking him to make him his. He can’t say no that, future be damned.

So Sherlock drives himself back in, his knot popping through the tight rings of muscles. His orgasm is almost immediate, enough to make his vision spot. It crashes over the alpha as he lets out a growl, moving his hips in small movements. Instinctually, almost without even realizing it, Sherlock locks himself to the tender spot of John’s flesh, right above where neck meets shoulder and tears into the skin.

 John lets out a strangled moan, feeling for a moment as though he was being ripped in two.  But the pain subsides in just a few moments, when john feels Sherlock’s warm seed flooding him. Sherlock’s moving his hips in small circles, while simultaneously working John’s swollen and sensitive prick. In less than a minute, John’s drowning in his own orgasm, body shuddering, muscles contracting, a near scream ripping itself from his throat.

Eventually, everything settles. Breathing patterns are returning to near normal and Sherlock’s orgasms are coming further and further apart. John opens his eyes, he doesn’t even remember closing them, and stares at the gorgeous alpha above him. Sherlock is just barely keeping his head up, energy drained, and John gives him a sloppy, exhausted grin. He musters the energy to lift his head up when he feels a horrible ache on his neck. With a small gasp, he runs his hand along the tender area and feels the painful wound. His hand comes away with flecks of blood; matching the droplets John’s now noticing decorate the corners of Sherlock’s mouth.

“Oh you _utter_ bastard” The small laugh in John’s voice betrays his anger and Sherlock’s mouth quirks up in the corners.

Sherlock feels hope flutter in his heart, while he untangles and rearranges their bodies so they lay comfortably while waiting his knot to go down. He lays spooning the small doctor, arms wrapped around his waist, hands resting on the soft belly he swears has become slightly distended from their mating and the copious seed his alpha biology supplied. He licks the new bond mark, hoping the natural bonding chemical in his saliva will help clean the wound until they can care for it properly.

Even after the knot has gone down, they stay in bed. Sherlock listening to John’s even breathing pattern as he sleeps. He was selfish for enjoying this, for bonding to John, for tying the kindhearted soldier to him this way. He doesn’t dare sleep and miss a moment of their time together.

He spends the night hoarding memories into his mind palace. He memorizes John scent, the rhythm of his heart, soft golden glow to his skin, the way his sandy eyelashes rest against his cheeks…he trace the spider-web pattern of John’s wound, the very injury that brought the brilliant army doctor into his life. He tries to enjoy the moment he has here because tomorrow will come and with it will come a problem. A final problem.

====

“This phone call – it’s, uhm… it’s my note.” This can’t be happening _please_ \-  “It’s what people do, don’t they – leave a note?”

“Leave a note _when_?” He’s shaking so hard. His legs aren’t going to hold him much longer. John's still slow and hazy from his heat.

This can’t be real. This has to be a nightmare and by god if it’s not worse than all the nightmares John’s endured since war _. Please God_ \- “Goodbye, John.”

He’s not in control of his body anymore. His mouth is rambling, his legs are moving, his head is spinning. He can’t stop himself, he can’t stop anything. “ _SHERLOCK!”_

There’s a crack. It’s deafening, it has to be because John can’t hear anything. He’s lost his hearing. Everything is buzzing. There’s a crack, the earth splitting, the heavens breaking, his chest is splintered. Everything is white noise, muddled and indistinct. He’s being blinded, too because he can’t see anything but the bloodied figure in front of him and even that’s fading away, like a fog settling on everything. His words are slurred, he can hardly walk. There’s a pain spreading across his body, it’s like he’s being shot all over again except he feels it in every extremity and every organ.  Everything’s so cloudy and unreal, the only thing he’s sure of is the still-warm skin of Sherlock’s wrist in his grip.

Time is frozen, time is racing forward. There are so many people around him and then they’re gone. He’s moving, but he’s sitting still. He knows he’s not walking because his legs wouldn’t be able to hold him now. There’s a buzzing, a new one, coming in around him, getting louder. John is suffocating, but his lungs feel like they’ve burst open.

“John”

“John”

There is a burning touch on his face, his skin is melting and his body is breaking _. Please god let me die._

_“John.”_

John Watson’s cloudy gunmetal eyes are pointed downwards, towards the expensive Italian leather shoes of Mycroft Holmes, sitting across from him in his sleek town car. His face is ashen, eyes wide but unseeing. It’s obvious he’s in shock, and Mycroft doubts if John can actually hear or see him. His brother always did love a show, regardless of the aftermath when he left the stage.

“Hello, John.” The army doctors eyes snapped up to the bureaucrat’s face. A plastic smile crawls across Mycroft’s face, “Good. You’re here with us.”

“ _Sherlock.”_ John voice is quiet and raw. He stares at his hands, covered in blood and gravel, “Where…where are we?”

“We’re in my town car and on the way to my home.”

“Sherlock?”

“I’m afraid Sherlock will not be joining us.” He sighs, exhausted, exasperated.

John closes his eyes and see’s the tall figure against the grey sky and the deafening crack and the pale ice-blue eyes empty, sticky with blood–

His lungs are imploding and his head spinning, vision fading again. “ _Don’t…_ ” John vomits, there in the back seat of Mycroft Holmes’ fancy car, all over the upholstery and leather, he’s shaking as he wipes the bile from his lips, “ –don’t be dead. Stop. Just for me. _Please.”_ The pounding in his head is horrible; no one can feel like this and be alive, surely? “ _Stop!_ ” The fog is taking over his vision, Mycroft Holmes is slipping away, a blackness is creeping in. He can’t breathe.

 “Just stop it– ”He’s dying, he knows it, he has to be. “ – _stop this_.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my god I am soooooo sorry. For those of you who are still here, thank you so so so much. I do not deserve your patience or forgiveness. So many apologies for you. 
> 
> For the first time in a long time, I got really stupid drunk, read through some old fics, then wrote this chapter about two days ago. I just finished making it, uhm, legible? It is also very rushed but I didn't want to try and revise it because I wanted it out as soon as possible. Eventually, I will probably go back to edit it.
> 
> I have a plan for the next couple of chapters. I'm going to try really hard to get them typed up. I'm so sorry to everyone! I, also, cannot write sex scenes at all so I also apologize for that. 
> 
> Previous warnings apply: Tags may continue to change, there will probably be mpreg, and a lot of anxiety and panic. 
> 
> Thank you everyone for reading.


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